


let me sleep here

by Ibbyliv



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, No Plot, just fluff, sleep deprived Enjolras, sleep deprived author
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-08-28
Updated: 2013-08-28
Packaged: 2017-12-24 23:07:48
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,527
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/945761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ibbyliv/pseuds/Ibbyliv
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Still, it is quite uncomfortable to live with Grantaire, especially when he enters the bathroom without knocking first, (thank God and everything sacred he had already managed to wrap a towel around his waist but his hair was dripping and he hates it when his hair is dripping and he hated Grantaire’s inexplicable blue glance all over him) or when he lazily leans over the coffee machine in the morning in nothing but his boxers and a sarcastic smile (his boxers are dark green with little glasses of beer printed on them, his torso shows very well that he boxes with Bahorel and all that is so irritating and confusing and his eyes are so fuckin’ blue). </p><p>He can’t be thinking of blue eyes right now. He needs to finish this.<br/>*<br/>Sometimes Enjolras forgets to sleep.</p>
            </blockquote>





	let me sleep here

**Author's Note:**

> No regrets, just fluff.

He has to finish this.

 

It’s dark outside, it’s been like this for hours, really and it’s way past midnight, two o’clock or three or five, he doesn’t really know and he doesn’t care, he hasn’t looked away from his essay and he can’t, actually, what with two more waiting, as well as a presentation on the June Rebellion and a speech he has to prepare for the meeting. He’s already had four coffees and he wants to believe that they’re working but he can hardly open his eyes open: having slept for a total of eight hours during the past three days doesn’t help as much as he’d like it to.

 

He can’t think about it. He has to finish this.

 

He will, he has done it before. He doesn’t have anything better to do and _sleep_? Why would he? Sleep is for the weak anyway.

 

The fifth cup of coffee is wrapped tenderly between the long, delicate fingers of his left hand as the right one moves furiously over the paper. The truth is that he could use some help from Combeferre to tidy his desk up: an open laptop, numerous piles of papers and course books, together with speech drafts, pamphlets and newspapers (don’t forget Courfeyrac’s ridiculous Valentine card, calling him a Sex Deprived Representative of the Color of Excessively Oppressed Passion) produce something that under certain circumstances _could_ be considered as a mess.

 

A terrible mess.

 

But he can’t, he doesn’t care, not now, he’s writing and scribbling and keeping notes, he has to finish this.

 

The problem is that his body doesn’t seem eager to cope. His shoulders feel so heavy and tense, like Napoleon’s elephant is stepping on them, crashing him down on his desk. His golden locks are wildly peeking out of his ponytail and his head is spinning around. There are a few seconds he spends drifting in and out of consciousness, his head falling limp on his shoulders but he quickly opens his eyes afterwards, his aching, red rimmed eyes and continues working, until the next violent yawn shakes his body.

 

But he has to finish this.

 

The apartment is quiet, everything is dark apart from the stupid trembling lamp on his desk –he needs to ask Feuilly to fix this-, both Combeferre and Courfeyrac are absent, (the first one having a night shift at the hospital and the latter sleeping to Jehan’s) and the silence which has helped and supported his work until now, is starting to calm him and slowly lead him to Morpheus’ arms.

 

What he has completely forgotten about, is their visitor. Feuilly, Jehan and Grantaire’s apartment is being painted, and the cynical man is spending a couple of nights in his apartment. The idea annoyed him at first, but Enjolras isn’t the man to deny his… _friends_ his hospitality. He and Grantaire have never been on the best of terms, but he has to admit that they haven’t really fought the past few days. Well, apart from when Grantaire dragged the bathroom curtain all the way to the floor, or when he caught him rehearsing his speech in front of the mirror, or when he put on Opera music and sang to the top of his lungs (again, he has to admit he has a rather… decent bass voice), or when he accidentally opened one of Grantaire’s sketchbooks (he _swears_ he didn’t manage to see anything, Grantaire was too fast to slap him with a dish towel straight on his face), but none of these count as _real_ fights.

 

Still, it _is_ quite uncomfortable to live with Grantaire, especially when he enters the bathroom without knocking first, (thank _God_ and everything sacred he had already managed to wrap a towel around his waist but his hair was dripping and he hates it when his hair is dripping and he hated Grantaire’s inexplicable blue glance all over him) or when he lazily leans over the coffee machine in the morning in nothing but his boxers and a sarcastic smile (his boxers are dark green with little glasses of beer printed on them, his torso _shows_ that he boxes with Bahorel and all that is so irritating and confusing and his eyes are so fuckin’ _blue_ ).

 

He can’t be thinking of blue eyes right now, he has to finish this.

 

But _of course_ Grantaire and his notorious icy blue eyes are here to ruin everything as he’s entered the room in his sweatpants and grey hoodie and Enjolras must be very tired because Grantaire with his dark wild curls looks so… _huggable_ in this huge grey hoodie and that’s just wrong, so bloody wrong.

 

He tries to ignore him which is quite an easy task as he can hardly concentrate on anything, his eyelids fall heavy and his head feels light, empty, but he _has_ to continue this.

 

Grantaire makes his way to his desk and very rudely places something upon his excellently kept notes.

 

“What is that?” he shouts, being muffled by a yawn.

 

“Eat,” Grantaire simply says.

 

Enjolras is sleepy but he can still smell the food and God it smells glorious but he can’t, there’s no time… “What?”

 

“Eat,” the man threatens, “or else I’ll have to feed you.”

 

“Grantaire,” he tries to keep his voice collected but another yawn betrays him, “it’s…” he stares at the tricolor clock on the wall and the numbers seem to be dancing, “four AM.”

 

“Exactly,” he smirks, “and you should be in bed, but you haven’t eaten anything all day. This is highly unhealthy.”

 

“Says the man who had whiskey for breakfast…” he mutters.

 

“It wasn’t whiskey, it was Irish coffee. Coffee was perfectly acceptable a beverage to have for breakfast, last time I checked. Now, eat.”

 

Enjolras shoots an impatient glance at the tray. “What _is_ this anyway?”

 

“Coq a vin, don’t worry, I won’t poison you.”

 

Enjolras scrunches up his nose like a stubborn spoilt child, “yes, but you’re _trying_ to fill my veins with alcohol.”

 

Grantaire snorts, and before Enjolras can return to his writing, grabs the fork and shoves it against his mouth. Enjolras can do nothing but open his lips and accept the food which _hell_ is tasty; he didn’t know Grantaire could cook even better than Combeferre.

 

But suddenly he feels even more tired and he can’t even eat, and the most absurd thing happens, Grantaire is feeding him patiently, digging the meat in the sauce and leading the fork to his lips, while he tries to scribble a word or two more, but in vain. He’s so ashamed but he can barely think about it anymore, his eyes are closing, and after having eaten so that he feels full, he waves his hand in the air sleepily, like a baby who doesn’t want anymore and Grantaire stops feeding him. His eyelids are so heavy, the light is so low in the room and his chair suddenly feels so comfortable. Before he can manage to blink, he feels strong arms wrapping around his waist and he wonders whether he’s already asleep and dreaming because it smells of beer and after shave which is a good change, a _great_ change, Grantaire is always unshaved and it’s so comforting and that hoodie might smell of cigarettes but it’s so soft and without being able to help himself, he leans deeper into the fabric, and unconsciously throws his arms around Grantaire’s neck and nuzzles his head in the man’s shoulder.

 

He’s almost asleep before he even shuts his eyes and he can’t even think but somewhere in the back of his mind he notices how _strong_ Grantaire is as he carries him to his bed, the ride slightly bumpy but it smells so good and it is so soft and warm and he can faintly feel Grantaire’s hand holding him under his butt to support his weight but everything seems normal now between dreams and reality, nothing seems wrong.

 

He collapses to his bed and for a moment his eyes open. He sees Grantaire in the darkness leaning over him, pulling the blanket up to his neck and straightening it, then staring at him, lips pressed together and eyes calm, silent, looking as if they’re in pain, and it feels warm, so warm and so right, and for once Enjolras likes what he sees. “Stay,” he murmurs and his eyes immediately shut. In his sleep he feels something climbing on the bed near him and throwing an arm around his waist. "Goodnight, Apollo," mutters Grantaire, trying to hide a smile.

During the night he can feel a rapid heartbeat pounding against his back, and without realizing, he smiles.

 

He’s woken up by a flashlight and all he knows while rubbing his eyes is that Courfeyrac and Feuilly are standing on the doorway, holding a camera and smiling widely. “Facebook is up for some grand surprises, is it not F’ewy, mon ami?” chuckles his best friend. Grantaire is still snoring, his arm tightly wrapped around his chest. He feels his cheeks burning while Courfeyrac receives a pillow on his face.

 

He’s royally fucked. But being royally fucked is warm. And it smells good.


End file.
